


Snowfall

by lferion



Series: The Grey Book of Erebor [15]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Counted Word Fic, Drabble Sequence, Gen, HobbitAdvent, Points of View, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-04
Updated: 2013-12-04
Packaged: 2018-01-03 13:25:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1070982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lferion/pseuds/lferion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snow, seen from six different points of view.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snowfall

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Day 4 of Hobbit Advent, prompt - Snowfall.

Snow was one of Manwë's gifts, an unexpected harmony with Ulmo, both of them coming together to create good out of Melkor's perversion of rain into ruinous hail and icy sleet. Snow fell soft, each flake unique, dancing down the sky. Even when it flew in blinding sheets, filling the air with grey-white rivers of crystalline water, piling high in cold blankets, frozen purfles covering the ground, bushes, trees, rocks and boulders with furious speed, there was still beauty to it, a terrifying grace. Each snowflake a tiny star, a mote of frozen fire, as every raindrop and hailstone was as well. An expanse of them together dazzled in sunlight, glittered and shone under the moon, turning ice to light.

It did not snow in Lorien, not often, and never for long. Galadriel preferred to see snow from a distance, white on the high slopes of the mountains, not cold and wet beneath her feet. It had snowed in Valinor, occasionally: perfect, beautiful events, sensed in advance, appreciated with warm wine and laughter. Those long-ago days were not what she thought of when she thought of snow. She remembered the knifing cold of the North, the terror and fear of the long dark of crossing the Helcaraxë, the bitter white wastes of the Grinding Ice. They had endured every kind of winter weather on that journey, lost many companions to it. No, to Galadriel, snow was the image of despair.

Radagast liked snow, though he could not help but worry for his small friends, especially in years when the storms came down from the Hithaeglir one after the other, making the trees creak in the wind, and the branches bend low under the weight of the wet snow. The Long Winter had seen him near frantic with effort to ward off the killing cold, make shelter and provide for every kind of creature — four- or two-, six-, eight- or many-legged, with no legs at all. But even then had been moments of astonishment and wonder, when he would stand entranced by the lace of tree-stems white with rime, single snowflakes floating down, light-struck icicles sending rainbows over pristine, snowy glades.

Bilbo had been barely a tween during the Fell Winter, and before he ever faced wargs and goblins on his Adventure, the sound of wolves had echoed in his darker dreams. Everything about that winter had been unusual: the ice, the blizzards, the candles and lamps burning all day. The snow hadn't fallen, but plummeted, driven, raced to the ground. Proper snowfall was soft, fat flakes drifting down of an evening, whispering against the glass of the parlor window, a fire in the hearth, a pipe of Old Toby in hand, a mug of something warm at ones elbow, and a friend to share it with. And in the morning, a counterpane of shining white just deep enough for fun.

Estel knew that snow was magic. The first snowfall of winter was particularly special, Imladris turned overnight into a tale out of legend, sparkling all white and silver, diamond stars winking of the gleaming spires and gossamer draped trees. A vision of Gondolin, Tirion, Eldalondë, Armenelos, one of the great cities of Men or Elves, glimpsed in the fleeting transformation of the snow. It was magic in another way too, for the first snow meant no lessons, but dashing about in the powdery, cold stuff, throwing snowballs and laughing with the elves who had never lost their joy in the present world. Even in later years, Aragorn could still find that sense of magic and peace in the first snowfall.

As a child, snow had just been snow to Thorin, a constant presence on the peak and upper valleys of the Mountain. Pretty enough to look at, a nuisance to the Men of Dale when it came too early or too late, too little or too much, but not relevant to his daily life. In exile, it had been an obstacle, a hazard, another thing that must be dealt with, overcome. Now, though, as they came to the end of their quest, the imminence of Durin's Day, and the cusp of all his hopes, it didn't matter that they were cold, or ragged, or wet with river-water. The snow wheeling out of the sky was yet another sign of home.

**Author's Note:**

> Each piece is 120 words, thus the set makes up a circle twice. 
> 
> The snowflake pictures are all by Alexey Kljatov, who does amazing work.


End file.
